Extraordinary
by Yellow Emerald
Summary: Did you ever wonder what would have happened at the end of The Great Game if that phone call hadn't been made? This is an alternate ending, so if you haven't seen the episode there will be major spoilers. If you have seen the episode, now is your chance to see what could have happened... Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N So, now that I've hit the magic number of ten reviews for my first story, I thought I'd post an older one. The first time I saw the finale of the first series of Sherlock, I didn't realise it was the finale… I thought the cliffhanger would be resolved the next week. (Oh, how wrong I was.) In the meantime, I decided to write an imagined ending to _The Great Game_ so I could see later on if I guessed anything right. (Which I didn't, of course.) In case that's not clear enough, *spoiler warning for _The Great Game_* which is heavily quoted for the sake of context. This story is a two-shot, the second half will be posted once it gets three reviews. I hope you enjoy it! ~Yellow Emerald**

Sherlock Holmes, world's best, first and only consulting detective, smiled.

"Brought you a little 'getting to know you' present. Oh, it's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little 'puzzles', making me _dance_. All to distract me from this." The genius smirked, holding up the memory stick that he'd already altered. Using his rough knowledge of nuclear physics, he'd made the plans appear convincing while ensuring there were two dozen different ways it would break down if the criminal tried to build and use the design.

He could never have prepared for what happened next.

"…Evening. This is a turn up – isn't it, Sherlock?" Said an all-too-familiar voice from behind him. Sherlock spun around in shock.

Standing at the other end of the abandoned swimming pool was his friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that he was wearing an oversized coat with wires draping from the bulk within it. A bomb. And John looked as though he was blinking back tears.

The criminal had stolen another voice. The threat of seeing John blown up or shot was the only thing that held Sherlock in place while he tried to think of a plan, but none were forthcoming. Instead, he found himself speaking, his voice losing its harsh tone completely.

"John."

The doctor gave a tiny nod, not daring to speak a word that wasn't relayed over the earpiece he was wearing.

"What the hell – " _Oh my God. _

"Bet – you didn't – see _this_ coming…" John stated, moving his arms to allow Sherlock a clear view of the explosives attached to his coat. "What – would you like me – to make him say – next?"

"Gottler gear." Sherlock said, without pausing to think.

"Gottler gear, gottler gear…" John looked afraid.

"Stop it."

"Nice touch, this – the pool – where little Carl died. I stopped him… I can stop – John Watson too. Stop his heart." John said, robotically. The only sign he could still feel anything was the tiny pause before he said his own name, where he had to quash his fear and continue or risk death.

Sherlock was now frozen in complete horror.

_No. I can't let this happen. _

_If it were any other innocent life, I know I'd be able to think of a solution in seconds. Damn it! Why did the criminal have to pick John, of all people?_

Automatically, his mind whirled with possible answers to the question.

_Convenience? Maybe when John left the flat the criminal was outside and happened to choose him as the next hostage… No, too coincidental. The criminal knows John's name, which suggests he's studied him before…_

_Inconvenience? John somehow knows too much or realised something I didn't, perhaps… No, that's impossible. I saw him working earlier; he takes eternity to make deductions. I would have got there first._

_Connections? But John isn't connected with anyone the criminal would be interested in… **except me**. That's the reason he was taken! To try and wrong-foot me somehow, make me lose sight of why I'm here. The criminal was watching me, of course, saw John leaving the flat and recognised him as my colleague, saw the advantage and took it._

_Case closed._

_So the criminal chose John to deter me. I won't let that happen._

"Who are you?" Sherlock snapped. He didn't really expect a reply, so he was surprised when a petulant voice rang out. He tried not to let his fear show, as the criminal would be watching and also he didn't want to alarm John.

"I gave you my number… I thought you might call…" There was a pause. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

" Both." Sherlock pulled out the gun and held it steady.

"Jim Moriarty…" He smiled. "Hi!" Sherlock stared at him. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Jim from I.T. was a master criminal. Sherlock nearly groaned. He should have seen that coming. Molly was clearly only ever attracted to brilliant, uninterested men. "Ah, I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point." A laser sight flickered onto John. Sherlock aimed for the well-spoken man. If he could only take him out, he'd be able to save John…

_Wait, what?_

_When did this become about John? I started these games to prove I could beat a master criminal, although saving the hostages did factor into it. As I said before, if caring won't help me to save them then I won't bother… But he isn't just another stranger, he is Doctor John Watson. My colleague. My flatmate. My **friend**._

_I can't just stand by calmly while he's in a situation like this!_

Sherlock swallowed, meeting his friend's eyes. John gave another, almost imperceptible, nod.

_He's not crying like the others. He's staying oddly calm, almost as if he believes he can survive this. _

_Almost as if he thinks we have an advantage._

"Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle… I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

Sherlock's flair for the dramatic distraction kicked in.

"Dear Jim… please will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover's nasty sister… Dear Jim, please will you _fix _it for me to disappear to South America…"

"Just so."

"Consulting criminal… brilliant." And before, he honestly would have meant it. Now, though, all he wanted was to get out of this alive and make sure John was okay. His thoughts flicked back to the Study In Pink case for a split second. Was this how John had felt before he fired? Afraid for Sherlock's life? Terrified of failing? The doctor really must have nerves of steel.

Moriarty's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Isn't it? No-one ever gets to _me_… and no-one ever will."

Sherlock made sure his gun was in order.

"I did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my _way_." Moriarty said. He could seem almost reptilian when he spoke. He was certainly cold-blooded…

"–Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a _compliment_."

"–Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did…" 'Jim' shrugged and started to stroll towards him. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do, I cut loose all those _people_, all those little _problems_, even _thirty million quid_ just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off. Although, I have _loved_ this, this little _game_ of ours, playing 'Jim from I.T.', playing _gay_ - did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died." Sherlock reminded him. Not that the criminal cared.

"That's what people DO!" 'Jim' roared.

"I _will_ stop you."

"No you won't."

And, oh God, what if he was right? What if Moriarty was too powerful, too clever, even for Sherlock?

But he couldn't afford to think like that. There were lives at stake – his and John's.

Unable to hold back any longer, Sherlock spoke to John, though he kept his main focus on 'Jim'.

"You all right?" A small nod. Sherlock tried not to let his relief show on his face.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy, go ahead." The criminal sneered. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to punch the smug git in the face, but just barely restrained himself. One wrong move and John would be killed.

John nodded again. Now was not the time for dramatic conversation, and so he and Sherlock kept their focus on the other man. He seemed inclined towards monologues anyway.

Sherlock held out the memory stick.

"Take it."

"Hmm? Oh… _that_? The missile plans…" Jim walked past John and took the

stick from Sherlock with a smirk, kissing the plastic coating. "Bo-ring! I could

have got _them _anywhere." He tossed the memory stick into the swimming

pool.

Even the great Sherlock Holmes had to admit he was stunned when the doctor leapt onto 'Jim' and locked him into a painful-looking hold. Stunned, and rather impressed.

"Sherlock, run!" John snarled, struggling against his tormentor. Sherlock had to stop himself from bursting out with admiration – for the first time, he actually understood why John felt the need to say things like 'fantastic' when a vital deduction was made. It was something he never saw coming.

"Oh, _good_!" 'Jim' gasped, as he was pinned in a headlock. "_Very _good!"

"Your sniper," John growled. "Pull the trigger, Mr. Moriarty, and we _both_ go up."

"He's _sweet_… I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their _pets_. He's so touchingly loyal, but oops!" He struggled, but it was no use. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson…"

Then he saw a flicker of red light in his peripheral vision, and John's expression hardened. He released his grip on 'Jim', who smirked.

"Gotcha…"

Sherlock was about to ask why John had let him go, but then he saw the sniper's laser trained on John, and realised that the red light he'd noticed was another being trained on him. He nearly scowled.

_We were so close._

_So close…_

'Jim' was brushing off his suit.

"Westwood." He explained. "Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess: I get killed."

"Kill you? Mm, no, don't be _obvious_, I mean I know I'll kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to _rush_ it though. I'm saving it up for something _special_. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll… I'll burn you. I will burn – the _heart_ – out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not _quite_ true." He locked eyes with Sherlock, as if daring him to disagree. "Well, I'd better be off. It was so nice to have a proper chat…" He licked his lips.

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?"

"Well then you could cherish the look of _surprise_ on my face." 'Jim' said, pulling a mock-shocked face. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit… disappointed. And, of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." 'Jim' started to back away. Sherlock followed his movements with the gun, saying slowly and deliberately:

"Catch… you… later."

"No you won't!" 'Jim' called, and the door slammed shut.

The moment he saw Jim leave the room, all of Sherlock's false bravery left him. He set down the gun and started to free his friend from the lethal binds connecting him to the bomb.

"All right?" John breathed a gasp of relief. Sherlock frantically scrabbled at the jacket, full of concern. "Are you _all right_?"

_Please be okay, please be okay, please…_

"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." John answered. Sherlock quickly started to remove the jacket. "I'm fine – Sherlock." The detective raced to get John out of the jacket filled with explosives, ignoring his friend's protests until he had it off him. "Sherlock!" John turned to see the detective getting the jacket as far from him as possible before hurling it down the path beside the pool, far enough away for him to relax a little. Both men took a minute to take in a few breaths of sheer relief, before John sank down to the floor and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine." Sherlock muttered, as he absently scratched his neck with his gun.

John was safe.

_He's fine. I knew he'd be fine, really. No need to worry. Same as ever, although…_

"That, er… thing, that you er, that you did, that, um – " he cleared his throat "you offered to do, that was um..." Sherlock was nearly lost for words as he thought back on what John had said.

_Brilliant. Fantastic. Incredible. Unbelievable. Amazing. Heroic, even._

_But you could have died._

_Stupid, idiotic, foolish, awful, moronic, suicidal. Terrifying._

He struggled briefly, trying to decide on a word. Eventually he settled on one.

"…Good." A flicker of a smile crossed John's face.

"I'm glad no-one saw that."

_Huh? Don't you think backup could have been useful just then?_

"Hmm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."

Sherlock took half a second to process the innuendo. He nearly burst out laughing, but the memory of the danger his friend had been in sobered him so he could barely manage to reply.

"People do little else." They met each other's eyes and grinned briefly.

As he started to get up, John looked down, where he saw a red pinpoint of light flickering against his chest. Sherlock's smile died on his face.

"Oh – "

And then, of course, Jim decided to make his big re-entrance.

"Sorry boys!" Chirruped 'Jim', as he let the door close. "I'm _so-o_ changeable… It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness. You can't be allowed to continue… you just can't. I would try to convince you…" He spread his hands. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock looked to John. Another nod. _Take him down._ He turned to look at his enemy.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." He said, smoothly producing his gun. He pointed it straight at 'Jim' Moriarty.

Sherlock was filled with hatred for the man. He just didn't know when to quit. For once, no iota of respect for the criminal's methods remained in Sherlock's mind.

This was the man who had taken ordinary, innocent people who had never done him harm, and forced them to act as his mouthpieces. The man who had strapped them to bombs and pointed guns at their heads. The man who had murdered an old woman for describing his voice. And he didn't stop there.

This was the man who had kidnapped and threatened Sherlock's friend. And this was the man Sherlock loathed.

He looked at John, only to find that sniper lights swarmed all over the doctor. From the look on his face, Sherlock was in a similar position. He looked back at Jim, back at the discarded explosives.

_I could kill him. I could shoot him right now, but at what cost? I would die. John would die. And knowing Jim, his team of snipers would 'fix' him in time, before he could bleed out._

_I can't shoot him. What, then? …I could blast the explosives. He'd be wiped out for certain. _

John gave him another nod.

_But I know that once I shoot, they'll shoot at us. Not that it'd matter. We'd all be dead in a matter of milliseconds anyway._

Sherlock lowered his gun from Jim to the explosives, outlining his threat. Jim seemed almost surprised.

"What, and ruin all your hard work?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your efforts to save Doctor Watson, of course. Don't tell me you hadn't realised that in the explosion, both of you would die too."

Sherlock raised his head fractionally.

"I am fully aware of that. But if we can finish you, I will be happy to go down with my friend at my side. We will have won, in a way." He smiled faintly, and pulled the trigger.

There was a blast from the gun. Jim's face was a mask of genuine surprise.

_Well, I suppose this is it. Death by sniper rifle… how unoriginal._

A split second after the gun fired, Sherlock was barrelled over into the pool. He had no time to think, no time to snatch more than a mouthful of air, before he was hurled down into the dark, chlorinated waters.

Something was pulling him down. He was being dragged backwards into the deep end of the pool by the back of his coat. Above him, the surface of the water flashed with a bright white light, edged with fiery oranges and yellows. He was struggling to hold his breath, and released a few bubbles of precious air. Meanwhile, his captor pulled him further down with every stroke, down into the deepest water.

Mere metres above, the water hissed and bubbled with heat from the explosion. The pool's surroundings were a heap of charred tiles and rubble, and a variety of burnt, disfigured corpses lay amidst the wreckage.

_I can't… breathe… _

_I need air._

The rhythmic strokes pulling him down paused. Then, to Sherlock's hazy surprise, they changed direction, pulling him up towards the surface.

_Can't… breathe…_

His instincts took over, and against his will he opened his mouth and gasped for air. The vile-tasting water swamped his mouth, infiltrating his throat, stinging his airways.

Staring blankly at the floor of the pool as it drifted further away, he passed out.

**A/N If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to review! Or if you're more of a lurker, perhaps you'll also enjoy reading the Sherlock crossover story I'm co-writing with my friend Legendberry. Why not check it out?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Thank you to Raychaell Dionzeros, Sherlocked For Life and the anonymous reviewer for your support – I'm really happy that you like this piece, and I hope you enjoy its conclusion!**

John Watson kicked frantically for the surface, feeling his air supply running low. His head broke through the water and he gasped for much-needed oxygen. Then he tried to raise his left arm, but the weight on it was too much. Sherlock didn't move in his grip.

"Damn it!" He hissed, lifting Sherlock's head above the water so his face was clear of the water. John flipped onto his back, holding his friend in place, and began a rapid breaststroke kick to the edge of the pool. With the roof gone, the night sky was visible overhead with a blanket of thick clouds and the occasional scattering of stars. John had never appreciated the sight of it more.

He hauled himself out of the water, eternally grateful for the loss of his psychosomatic limp, until only his left arm was hanging over the edge. With a grimace, he used one hand to grab hold of the sodden material he held until he got a grip on Sherlock's hands. He quickly let the detective dip down into the water before using the buoyancy to bring him backwards over the edge, pulling with all his strength.

The unconscious form of his friend emerged from the water. John pulled Sherlock's body until his head and torso were above the surface, then grabbed him under the arms and dragged him onto the remaining tiles, swinging his legs up once he was settled.

"Sherlock? …Sherlock, can you hear me?" John muttered, checking his friend for a pulse. There was no response.

"Sherlock!"

Nothing.

And then, very faintly, he felt it. Sherlock's pulse was far slower than usual, but he was alive.

"Thank God! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John spoke a little more loudly this time, but there was still no response from his friend. He lay unconscious, and he wasn't breathing.

"Oh, bloody hell…" John pushed down on his friend's chest, watching in dismay as the water trickled out of his mouth.

Immediately, his medical training kicked in. He started to prepare Sherlock for C.P.R., putting him in the correct position and praying he wasn't too late.

"Come on, Sherlock, please be okay, please God let him be okay…" John whispered, before taking in as much air as he could and pressing his lips to Sherlock's. The irony struck him that at this point he really wouldn't care if people talked, even Sarah, if it meant that Sherlock would survive. He pulled back and pushed down on the detective's chest, keeping count and watching the water spurt out of his mouth.

"How much did he take in?" John muttered, hoping against hope that Sherlock would wake up soon.

He didn't.

"Okay then…" Another deep breath, another attempt to get air into Sherlock's lungs. The taste of chlorine lingered on John's lips as he started another set of pushes.

One.

Two.

One.

Two.

One…

Sherlock gasped, coughing up even more water. He spluttered in shock, water trickling down his face. After a few seconds of this, he regained enough control to sit up, only coughing a little as he tried to take in more air.

"Take it easy, Sherlock. Don't panic, it just tightens your airways. Now sit still and focus on taking small breaths… in… out… in… out… that's it. Keep going." John smiled faintly as his friend started to breathe normally. He let out a sigh of relief. "Better?"

Sherlock nodded. He seemed to be coming round quite well. He coughed out some of the remaining water and seemed to realise something.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I think you just saved my life." Sherlock murmured.

"What makes you think that?" John asked, secretly wondering whether Sherlock had suffered a head injury at some point. Better to get him to tell the story and check for any memory issues. At least it would keep him talking, and talking meant breathing correctly.

"There was a bomb… and Jim was going to get away… and they would have killed us…" Sherlock mused, and then he suddenly seemed to take in his surroundings. The walls were mostly destroyed; all that was left were a few blackened and crumbling stacks of bricks. The tiles had been scorched too, and the plaster dust and ashes were still drifting through the air. "Ah. I suppose I wasn't bluffing."

"You didn't know?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Not really, no. Something wrong?" Sherlock looked at him as if daring him to criticise his indecision over setting off the bomb.

"…No. What do you remember, exactly?"

"I was… holding a gun."

"That's right."

"I fired at the explosives, but then…" Sherlock trailed off, evidently struggling to recall exactly what had happened next.

"Yes?" John prompted him. The head injury theory was looking less likely, as Sherlock was showing no signs of concussion, but he wanted to make sure.

"I wasn't shot. Something happened, and I was knocked into the pool. I was pulled down, away from the explosion… I ran out of air and blacked out."

"Full marks for recollection. I think you're going to be fine." John grinned. Sherlock, however, didn't look so happy. He frowned.

"What happened? Why aren't I – or we – dead?" He groaned and rubbed his head. "I can't think straight…" John decided it was probably just exhaustion, as Sherlock usually thought so quickly nobody could keep up.

He decided to take the unique chance to explain something to his flatmate for once rather than have it explained to him. He smirked. It was kind of fun to be the one with all the answers for a change.

"What, you haven't managed to work it out?" He ignored Sherlock's incredulous expression. "Well, I suppose you have been through a lot. I'll walk you through it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest that he was perfectly capable of solving the mystery, but then realised his head was aching and it would be easier to have it explained and closed his mouth with a nod.

"You said, 'if we can finish you, I will be happy to go down with my friend at my side' right before you pulled the trigger. It made me think. In Afghanistan, a bomb explodes and they order you to get down. Generally behind something, or in a trench, for some level of protection. No walls or sandbags were available, but there _was_ a nice, deep trench. Full of water to minimise the heat impact, too."

"The pool…" Sherlock murmured.

"Precisely. So I decided to use that as my shelter. Next problem: you were going to be shot the moment you pulled the trigger. So was I. And if we survived that, there was the explosion to look forward to… so I made up my mind to try and knock you out of harm's way, into the pool, the moment you fired the gun."

"You thought of all this in the seconds before I fired?" Sherlock's tone was caught somewhere between surprised and impressed, as if he'd never realised that other people were capable of processing data at such speed.

"Naturally. My mind works fastest in life-or-death situations, as you know. Plus, the way you phrased things… 'to go down with my friend at my side' was practically an instruction, when you think about it. To knock you sideways into the pool, pull ourselves down, away from the bomb, and live to fight another day. Unlike that lot." John motioned to the scattering of charred corpses, presumably Moriarty and the snipers who had fallen from their hiding places when the building fell apart.

Sherlock smiled sheepishly.

"I was actually just trying to be heroic when I said that, you know."

"Really? I thought you didn't see yourself as a hero." John was puzzled.

"I don't. I just wanted to see what it felt like for a moment, before I died."

"…Oh." There was nothing else he could say to that.

Sherlock averted his eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly. More drops of water rose up from his throat and he shook his head in annoyance.

"So, um, what happened next?"

"I knocked you in, pulled you underwater, got you deep enough to avoid injury… well, by the explosion, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't breathe in much before I pulled you under. By the time it was safe to resurface, you weren't moving. I needed air, so I came up – dragging you with me – only you were unconscious. I dragged you out and tried to make you wake up, but you weren't breathing. I managed to resuscitate you, and here we are." John smiled at Sherlock, who was staring at him in surprise.

"I, um… don't know what to say."

"The situation might be appropriate for a 'thank you'." John raised his eyebrows. Honestly, sometimes "high-functioning sociopath" seemed like a stretch.

"No. I mean… that was way beyond a casual 'thank you'. I owe you my life, twice over from the sound of it. What you did was…"

"Don't tell me, 'good'?" John chuckled.

"I was going to say 'extraordinary'."

John looked at him in surprise. It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes gave out compliments – it took offering to blow yourself up while clinging to a master criminal just to earn the comment 'that was… good.' Yet he had just heard his friend give him another compliment, in total sincerity. John gave Sherlock a wide smile.

"I'll have to save your life more often – I don't think I've ever heard you describe someone else as extraordinary, even the really clever criminals."

"None of them deserved it." Sherlock said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. There was a moment or two's silence.

"John?"

"Yep?"

"I'm really glad you're okay. For a moment back there, when you came in, I thought…"

"Don't." John grimaced. "It wasn't the best moment, and besides, I don't think Jim will be 'fixing' things any time soon. Better not to dwell on it."

"You're probably right."

"And anyway, it was nothing compared to when I realised you weren't breathing. Now _that_ was a scary moment…" John trailed off, remembering Sherlock's cold, motionless body lying by the poolside, and his struggle to find a pulse. He paled slightly.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, staring at him.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"What?" John stared at him, wide-eyed. "How can you make deductions as to whether someone's lying?"

"I could just tell."

"Fine, don't tell me. But you're right, I was just thinking… what if it hadn't worked?"

"Your plan?"

"That, or the CPR. If either hadn't worked, one or both of us would be…" John swallowed anxiously. He was prevented from continuing the sentence as Sherlock pulled him into an awkward hug.

"Don't worry."

John let out a breath and hugged his friend briefly, before pulling back and wiping his eyes.

"Sorry."

"It's fine." Sherlock took a deep breath – thankfully there didn't seem to be any more water forthcoming – and then seemed to remember something. "Come on, let's go and get the shopping." Sherlock said, getting to his feet.

"What?"

"Milk. And beans, too. Remember?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You said you'd do it!" John said indignantly, standing up.

"Well, I planned to do it once I was finished here. Problem?" And just like that, things were back to normal. Well, whatever passed for normal for the residents of 221b Baker Street.

"Yes, actually." John said, checking his pockets.

"Well?"

"All my money seems to have turned into a useless pulp. Do you mind paying?" John grinned and headed for the road, with Sherlock following him.

"Not at all. Do you think credit cards react to being soaked, though?"

"Probably not. What's bothering me is the idea of both of us turning up at the shop, dripping wet, in the middle of the night. They already think I'm mad from the incident with the self-scanning machine…"

And once again, the pair walked away from a crime scene in fits of laughter.

**A/N Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, why not check out my current joint project with Legendberry? It's a crossover fic called How I Met Your Father. Even if you don't usually read crossovers – I didn't before I started work on this one – you might find it interesting. You never know until you try, right? (Okay, okay, I'll stop plugging the story now!) Reviews for either story are greatly appreciated. ~Yellow Emerald**


End file.
